


and you weren't lying (when you said it would sting)

by ssilverarrowss



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Loneliness, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 06:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5280665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico finds that Lewis’s apathy is more scathing than his anger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you weren't lying (when you said it would sting)

**Author's Note:**

> Heaps of angst. What else is new?  
> Title from "$ting" by The Neighbourhood.

**2014**

Lewis’s arm curls around Nico’s shoulders under the lights in Bahrain, fingers gripping overalls as a smile spills over his lips. Nico holds him in his arms, pressing his cheek against Lewis’s collarbone and a warmth like  _belonging_  fills his sternum.

*

Love floods Nico’s skin as Lewis breathes beneath him, and he wants to kiss every inch of him until Lewis wears his love, until it shines like the stars.

“I love you.” He whispers against the hollow of Lewis’s throat, and Lewis smiles, fingers tangled in Nico’s hair, legs tangled in the crumbled sheets.

Nico’s fingertips brush over the lines of Lewis’s body, mapping out the topography, pressing his lips against every dip and every divot, and it’s slow and delightful and filled with love.

There’s a gliding devotion that drips over the skin, and Lewis’s lips close around Nico’s clavicle, tongue lapping out to taste him and the sound he makes envelops Lewis’s body and sings in his blood.

Lewis hums against Nico’s skin, and adoration pours from his lips, because  _there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you._

And when Lewis gasps out Nico’s name, tasting a prayer in his mouth, spine arching, Nico will know that Lewis loves him too.

*

(There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, but for myself—

I will do everything.

I will do _anything._ )

*

Betrayal feels like a sharp sting under the ribcage, ringing out in Nico’s head until there’s nothing else. 

 _You promised_ , he thinks, and it’s hollow, and Lewis’s hands feel cold as they slide over his.

“Sorry.” His mouth curls around the word but his eyes tell a different story.

_No, you’re not._

 *

There’s something like a crack and a snap, and a coldness sets in towards the end of May.

It’s just a second, a blink of an eye, and suddenly holding on is difficult. Bitterness spills out like poison, and racing takes a turn for the vicious in a way that’s both frightening and gratuitous. 

They break in the aftermath of what Lewis probably considers Nico making a decision, and they splinter, they  _fragmentize_ , pieces of them scattering across the track. 

There’s a burning anger set deep in Lewis’s dark eyes, and it’s the unspoken  _I hate you_  that hurts more than anything.

*

They ask Lewis about him, about  _them_.

“We’re not friends.” The words fall from his lips with a certain grace, an air of nonchalance, and a crushing finality settles between Nico’s bones. It’s an open wound, raw and bleeding, Nico’s ribs throbbing painfully with something like  _disintegration._

Nico finds that Lewis’s apathy is more scathing than his anger.

*

Lewis’s elbow on Nico’s shoulder is an uncomfortable weight, bones digging painfully into his skin, a smile stretching across Lewis’s lips and it’s cruel because it’s  _untrue_  and it’s—

_We’re not friends._

Nico shifts, letting Lewis’s arm fall, and it’s like he can breathe again. 

*

It’s slow and steady, the bleeding out of warmth, the way it gradually strips away anything that looks like affection.

*

Visors drop, teeth flash, and it’s like a breath of war has fallen over the track. 

*

Hungary is the beginning of the end. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way.” Lewis says, all sharp edges and taunting smirks, and  _it’s not personal._

They both know it is.

*

Belgium is the aftermath of Hungary, and by then, there’s nothing left. 

It’s a flurry of gritted teeth and hissed spite, of dangerous glances and fingers wrapped around throats. It’s furious. It’s merciless.

It’s  _broken._   

*

At night, truths are extracted from cold hearts and warm hands.

“I hate you so much.” Lewis tells him, clamping down on the junction of Nico’s neck and shoulder.

“I hate you more.” Nico replies, words scratched out of his throat, lips ghosting across the jutting bones of Lewis’s clavicle. 

He doesn’t taste the same. 

*

They don’t look at each other afterwards.

They don’t speak, either.

(They never do.)

*

Nico doesn’t really know what it’s about, anymore. 

There’s a tension hanging between them, ever-present, in the garage, on the track. It’s thick and it  _suffocates_.

And it’s funny, because when it comes down to it, their animosity somehow stems from everything and nothing at the same time. It’s racing incidents and broken trust; it’s betrayal and the bitter taste of disappointment.

It haunts him at night as he lies awake, staring up at the lights dancing across the plaster ceiling in his hotel room. 

Words spilling from young, eager mouths, promises that racing wouldn’t come between them. Hysteria curls in his stomach, bubbling in his throat and tumbling out as a strangled laugh, because  _look what happened to us._

And Nico thinks that maybe—

Maybe it’s really about  _incompatibility_.

*

They don’t hurt with their fists. 

Occasionally it’s the drag of teeth against skin, a burning indentation, or a blotch of purple marring pale collarbones.

They don’t speak often. 

But when they do, they use words to hurt.

(And really, Nico thinks, it’s more effective than any punch could ever be.)

*

Mind games, they say. Psychological warfare. 

And maybe it is.

They like to dig in each other’s wounds, is the thing. They’ve learnt each other’s weaknesses, they know how to exploit them and  _cut_.

Nico tries, and sometimes he succeeds. 

But Lewis—

Lewis is a  _natural._

_*_

The thing is, it’s not meant to be cruel, not really. 

At least not on Nico’s part.

What Lewis thinks, he doesn’t know. His dark eyes hold a coldness, a bitterness, and Nico finds he can’t read him anymore. 

He doesn’t—

_understand._

Maybe he never really did.

*

It’s a quiet war, like the distant rumbling of thunder, a fragile balancing act, always caught somewhere between co-operation and hostility.

Peace is ephemeral. They’re gasoline. It doesn’t take much to set them off. 

There’s something in the look Lewis gives him from the other side of the garage, filled with dangerous flickers of wild desire and burning contempt. His lips curl upwards, sharp, self-assured and _beckoning._

It hurts to look, but it hurts more to look away.

*

Lewis is a  _suffocator_ as his mouth closes around Nico’s neck, wet and hot, the pressure of a tongue heavy against his windpipe, fingers digging into wrists.

There’s nothing gentle about them—

softness dissipated, leaving them raw and sour, with sharp edges that sink into skin like broken porcelain. 

Nico finds he’s too drained to be angry, though, hatred muted and smouldering deep in the marrow. He lets Lewis’s fingertips glide over his body, paint bruises on his hipbones, lets him use him up, because it’s easier to take than the prospect of losing him.

 _I’m yours to break_ , Nico thinks, a dire observation, lips curving over the smooth surface of Lewis’s skin. 

_Burn me down._

 *

Nico hates Lewis, but Nico also _loves_ Lewis, and most days, he can’t even look at him because it rips him apart.

It’s complicated and it _hurts_ , some days it’s a dull ache; on others, it’s agony. 

But the force of gravity inexplicably pulls on them, and they skirt around each other, never together but somehow rarely apart. They’re like magnets, drawn towards each other, swept up by a torrent, causing collisions. 

Sometimes, Nico wishes they could love each other right. That they could love each other _at all._  

(He toys with the possibility of impossibility.)

*

It’s a relationship based on hurt.

It’s _something._

*

Abu Dhabi is—

it’s the crushing weight of failure but it’s also the unexpected warmth of Lewis’s body pressed flush against Nico’s, dark eyes uncharacteristically kind, trained on Nico’s mouth. Lewis’s hand curls around Nico’s earlobe, cupping his face with a long-lost tenderness. He’s softer, more vulnerable, somehow, than Nico’s seen him in months. 

He’s the Lewis Nico missed. The Lewis Nico _loved._

Nico’s breath hitches, and there’s a beat, a kiss lingering between them. 

And then it’s ripped from them, and they pull away, murmuring their _congratulations_ in a rehearsed, mechanical manner.

*

They part on good terms, the winter break a welcome distraction, but the tension never fades, not really. The season broke them, took something from them that they can never get back. 

Nico wonders if they’ll ever be right again. If they’ll ever get back so much as a fraction of what they had.

The uneasiness twists painful knots in the pit of his stomach.

He thinks he already knows.

*

It’s Christmas Day, and Nico finds himself standing by the window, looking out at the snow falling from the sky, building up in piles in the garden of their holiday home in Germany. 

He can hear the voices of his family members and friends filtering in from the dining room, laughing and chattering, the sound of cutlery on china, of drinks being poured.

A heavy sigh slips past his lips as he stares down at the screen of his phone, trembling fingers lingering over a familiar number. His tongue flicks out to wet his chapped lips, heart hammering against his ribcage. 

They haven’t seen each other since that night in Abu Dhabi, and although he’s longing to hear the sound of Lewis’s voice, it’s an unnerving prospect all the same, considering the fragility of their strained relationship. 

Nico dials the number hesitantly, exhaling slowly.

He waits, toying with the sleeve of his sweater, but it’s not Lewis he hears on the other side of the call; instead, he’s met with a message delivered in a cold, tinny voice.

“We’re sorry, the number you have reached is not in service at this time. Please check the number, or try your call again.” There’s a brief pause, and then: “The number you have dialled has been changed.”

There’s a click, the sound of a dial tone, and Nico feels his heart sink, mouth dry. He slides his phone back into his pocket with numb fingers. 

Hot lips nip at Nico’s earlobe, a tinkling laugh extracted from a smiling mouth. There’s the sound of rustling, and gold tinsel is thrown around Nico’s neck. A palm slips into his, fingers lacing through Nico’s, pulling him back into the living room. 

Nico smiles at his mother, laughs at his father’s jokes, but when it’s all over, loneliness eats away at him, spreading out over his bones, sitting thick and heavy between his ribs.

Nico wonders if he’ll ever be free from this. From  _him._

(He thinks he already knows.)

*

Completely by chance, they meet again at a New Year’s Eve party on a rooftop in Manhattan. 

Lewis’s dark eyes find Nico with ease, flickering over to him through the crowd, cold at first, but gradually warming with recognition.

They stand together at the edge of the roof, overlooking the city, glasses of champagne in hand. There’s a large projection of a clock displayed on the building in front of them, relentlessly counting down the minutes to midnight.

At 23:47, Nico’s fingers reach out to curl around Lewis’s. Their eyes meet, and though there’s an uncertainty in Lewis’s eyes, he doesn’t pull away. 

At 00:00, Lewis presses his tongue inside Nico’s mouth, lips moving together, soft and warm, the embodiment of a lost love. Fireworks are launched into the air, ripping through the sky, illuminating the night with colour.

At 00:02, they break apart, breathless, lips swollen, foreheads pressed against each other as snowflakes dance through the air, catching on their clothes.

*

They spend the night together, tangled between the sheets, making love without really _loving_ each other. It feels like a distant echo, something that was once so real and tangible turned into a faded memory. 

Lewis asks Nico about his New Year’s Resolution, fingertips absentmindedly tracing patterns on the bare expanse of Nico’s back.

There’s a beat, a moment of silence, and then, quietly:

“To stop doing this with you.”

Lewis swallows, nods. Laughs, even. Because in the end, Nico’s always been the reasonable one.

“That’s a good one. I like it.” He says, reaching out for his glass of champagne. “To 2015.”

“To 2015.” Nico echoes numbly as they clink glasses, letting the alcohol burn down their throats.

They look away, turning their heads towards the window, watching the fireworks slowly flickering out in the distance. The implications are obvious, hanging thick and oppressive in the air between them.

The welcoming of a new year, a new season—

It’s a _goodbye._

_*_

Nico and Lewis, they’re not meant to be.

Nico and Lewis, they—it never should have happened.

But it did.


End file.
